Hi! Long time no see! Sorry 'bout that. I started uni and haven't had much time for, well, anything really.

This chapter is set during series three. Also, I would like to say that I actually like Martha, but I'm pretty sure that TARDIS didn't. This is in no way intended as Martha-bashing.


When she was in pre-med, Martha's favorite teachers had talked about the importance of a doctor's hands.

"Your hands," they would say, "are your link to a patient. When you meet them, you shake their hand. A firm hand shake instills confidence. When you talk to them, illustrate what you are saying with your hands. When you hand them something to take with them you are handing them a part of who you are as a professional. Your hands are important. I have had patients and colleagues who have judged me on my hands. If you want to be professional you have to look professional, and, as a doctor, your hands have to look professional, too."

So Martha was careful with her hands. She tried to avoid situations where her hands could get hurt. She kept her skins as soft and smooth as she could. Her nails were always short and clean. If Martha painted her nails, which she rarely did, she used unobtrusive colors.

Things changed when she started travelling with the Doctor. She hurt her hands on a constant basis. Her skin would crack. And, one day, she decided she wanted to paint her nails a bright obnoxious pink. The problem with this decision was that she didn't have any pink nail polish. So a couple of days after Martha made this decision she went to talk to the Doctor.


"Doctor, I was wondering if you might have any nail polish."

"Now, Martha," he spun to face her "do I look like a man who paints his finger nails?" he said, wiggling said fingers in the air in front of his face.

Martha laughed at him. "I didn't mean if you had any. I meant if there was any that someone else might have left. I was hoping for something in a pink. Specifically a bright pink that only hyperactive six year-olds are supposed to like." Martha had been looking at her nails, and as she finished speaking she looked back up at the Doctor. The look on his face was one Martha hated seeing: the look of deep-seated emotional pain.

"No," he said softly, "there's nothing like that. There's only one color of pink, and-," he stopped abruptly and took a deep breath, and then another one. When he spoke again his voice was firm. "I'm sorry Martha but you can't use it." And then he left. He said nothing else, just turned and walked deeper into the TARDIS.


"It's about her isn't it? The girl? The friend he lost?" Martha had just closed her door after finally finding her room, which never took less than half an hour. "Rose? She painted her nails a lot?" Martha jumped, shocked, when she felt the smallest buzz through the door handle. The TARDIS never responded to her, and now she had. "Oh…" Martha breathed, "You miss her, too." The handle buzzed again, and the lights shifted just the tiniest bit. "I'm sorry," Martha moved placing her hand on the doorframe of her bathroom, "I hadn't realized you'd lost her, too."


The TARDIS was nicer to Martha for the next week. Right up until Martha tried once again to make the Doctor feel something he didn't, and then everything went back to the way it was before. Well, almost everything, because maybe, just maybe, every once in a while, it took Martha less time to find her room.